The stands rose above the street like a wooden cliff, tier on tier of benches swaying under the crush of bodies. The common folk were packed shoulder to shoulder, breath rising in pale clouds, stamping their feet for warmth as they jostled for a view. Near the centre, a section had been cordoned off with silk ropes and draped in cloth. Here the city's well-to-do gathered with space enough to breathe, their furs drawn tight against the late-winter chill, jewels winking in the pale sun.
It was here Katelijne De Wael, with her mother and brother, took her seat. The roar of the crowd below rose in waves — laughter, cries, vendors hawking chestnuts and honey cakes. The air was a muddle of scents: chestnuts sweet as sugar, perfume sharp as vinegar where too much had been dabbed, and the briny tang of pickled herrings passed hand to hand. Beneath it all lingered the bite of frost, clinging even as the press of the crowd gave off its own warmth.
She smoothed her skirts, heart thrumming in time with the drums gathering out of sight. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
'Still fussing?' Edwin groaned, slumping beside her. 'You've looked into that mirror a dozen times.'
'It's Carnival,' Katelijne said evenly, folding her hands in her lap. 'Everyone dresses finer than usual.'
'Finer?' Edwin snorted. 'I don't see how your hair can be finer than it was this morning. Unless you mean to braid each strand separately.'
Katelijne pressed her lips together. Only her brother could find irritation in a feast day.
Edwin tugged at his cuffs. 'All this waiting. And for what? Father strutting about in his robe like a peacock?'
She ignored him, eyes fixed across the street where the first of the guilds came into view, banners rippling overhead. The goldsmiths marched with measured pride, chains of office flashing in the winter sun.
Then she saw him: her father among them, head held high, his merchant's gown rich but sober, every inch the dignified master of his trade. Katelijne's chest swelled with pride despite herself.
'There, children,' her mother murmured, gloved hand tightening on the railing. 'Your father shows the city what a De Wael stands for. Remember it.'
A ripple of excitement passed through the stands as another flag unfurled — the dyers' guild. At its head strode Floris van den Berg, tall and handsome, the great banner of his guild billowing above him. He bore it as though it were a knight's standard, chin lifted, eyes sweeping the crowd until they fixed on her.
Sniggers ran through the benches at his theatrical bearing, but Katelijne's mother only sighed with satisfaction. 'Such presence,' she breathed. 'A De Wael could ask for no finer match.'
Heat rose to Katelijne's cheeks as Floris raised a jaunty hand — to her, and to half the city watching. She ducked her head, mortified, while Edwin gave a bark of laughter.
'God save us,' Edwin muttered. 'If he preens any harder, he'll trip on his own boots.'
A blast of trumpets spared her reply. The crowd surged with cheers, a wave of sound rolling down the street. Katelijne leaned forward, irritation swept away in the swell of excitement.
Soldiers followed in gleaming helms, boots pounding in unison, muskets shouldered. They drew whistles and mocking cheers in equal measure, for Carnival made fools of captains as well as kings.
'Always the same,' Edwin muttered, though his eyes never left the spectacle.
Jugglers came next, tossing balls and knives that flashed like sparks in the pale sun. Children squealed and scrambled onto barrels for a better view. Behind them rolled painted banners of saints and devils, swaying above the crowd.
Then the giants: wood and cloth tottering on hidden shoulders, their painted faces leering and grimacing as the crowd roared its delight. Perfume wafted from girls scattering rose petals. Drummers thundered past. Tumblers cartwheeled the length of the street, their bodies blurring in motion.
Noise, colour, the crush of humanity — it pressed close, and Katelijne's heart thrilled to it. For all her careful manners, Carnival seeped under her skin, tugging her toward laughter.
And then—
The actors.
A ramshackle wagon rattled forward, painted in motley colours long since peeled and flaked. Players in patchwork costumes capered atop it, calling jests and waving to the eager crowd. Perched proudly on the shoulder of one — a parrot, feathers bright green, wings flapping as it screeched: 'Pretty fool! Pretty fool!'
The crowd shrieked with laughter.
Katelijne's lips parted in surprise. The bird bobbed and squawked again, head cocked as though it knew the jest it made of them all.
But it was not the parrot that held her.
It was the man beneath it.
He was tall, dark curls tumbling loose, a grin quick as lightning flashing across his face as he called to the children racing beside the wagon. His clothes were patched, yet his bearing was bold — as if motley were a king's cloak and laughter his crown.
Something in him — some bright, reckless spark — snared her in an instant. Her breath caught. She could not look away.
The crowd was delighted, children and adults alike shrieking at every flourish. Even Edwin's scowl cracked. 'Trust Antwerp to cheer loudest for fools,' he muttered. 'I suspect they'd rather be ruled by parrots than guild masters.'
Katelijne almost smiled, but her gaze was caught fast on the young man with the bird — confident, bright-eyed, a grin that sparked against the grey of the day. He moved with easy grace, as though every jest and flourish belonged to him alone.
She leaned forward without realising, her heart quickening. The parade blurred: drums, trumpets, cheers — all fading to the flash of his smile.
She did not yet know his name. But from the moment she saw him, Antwerp's Carnival took on a new meaning.